CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. . He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. Out of an old family album: here was the very comparison that had eluded him. He had not thought to find a lady so ready of humour and willing to give him a hearing. You know—I worship you. You, for instance, you live, you are not afraid to live. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want.
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